Sunday Evening
by MlleBree
Summary: What if Erik and Christine were semi reasonable people? Slice of life fic set in the space between Raoul's entrance to the story and Don Juan.


She was late.

It wasn't an overly common occurrence, but once was far more than enough.

He sat alone at a table set for two, his hands crossed over each other on the far-too-white table cloth in front of his sterile, empty bowl. If he was honest with himself he wasn't angry, not really. No, angry wasn't it. Hurt, perhaps. It was a feeling he was growing more and more accustomed to with each passing day.

"Erik, I'm so sorry!" she appeared in a flurry of curls, the echo of each footfall sending another jabbing pain through his chest. "I lost track of time and I - I'm sorry."

Her hair was messed, the usually smooth blond curls a frizzled mess, her face flushed and her breath quick and heavy.

"You were with the boy," his words were flat and unfeeling, evenly measured as he watched her from behind his mask.

She was silent for a long while and eventually, having caught her breath, she sighed. "I don't know what you expect me to tell you."

"The truth."

She shifted from one foot to the other, looking down at her toes as though she were a small child being reprimanded for staying out past dark. "I was with Raoul," she confessed, her arms crossing protectively over her chest.

He was silent, watching the way she nervously shifted, the way her shoulders tensed under his scrutiny. "I thought you wouldn't come," he confessed.

"Oh, Erik," she breathed, and when he looked up at her she did seem sad at his implication. "We always have supper on Sundays. I wouldn't miss that."

"You've eaten already," he said flatly. "With the boy."

She was shaking her head, quick to dismiss his accusation. "No, I haven't. He wanted to take me to dinner but I - I told him no. Erik, I always sup with you on Sundays. And wether you choose to believe it or not, it is because I want to. I enjoy your cooking and - and your company, when your temper remains cool."

"You know that you will have to choose eventually."

She looked down toward her feet again, her arms tightening around herself once more.

"What is it about him Christine? His handsome face? His wealth? No, that can't be it though, I am rather wealthy myself. Perhaps it's his youth, his boyishness."

She brushed her hair behind her ear, making a futile attempt to smooth her frizzled curls. When she finally peeked up at him it was with her lower lip caught between her teeth.

"The sun, Erik," and her confession was surprisingly steady. "He has the sun - he has normalcy. He has - he doesn't frighten me. Your temper is rather terrifying. So long as you wish for the truth I will let it flow freely - your face doesn't frighten me. It isn't pleasant, that's to be sure, but it doesn't frighten me. It doesn't disgust me as you seem so sure it must. I could look upon it without flinching. It is your temper that is truly frightening."

He swallowed harshly, his throat and mouth suddenly feeling incredibly dry. "I never meant to frighten you - I never want to frighten you."

"I know," she said softly. "And that is why it does frighten me so."

"You are hungry," he offered, searching desperately for any way to change the subject. "I made stew, I know how much you do like it. And I - I will brew fresh tea. Yours must be dreadfully cold by now."

She sat slowly, looking as though she feared he would strike at her at any moment. If he were completely honest the look stung him deeply.

"I am not angry, Christine," he reassured her gently, only begging the look to slip from her face.

"You're hurt," she countered softly.

"I am," he admitted, matching her gentle tone as closely as he could manage. "But it is good, to know the truth. I need to know the truth."

"I loved you," her words were hardly more than a whisper. "I loved you when you were my Angel. And I may - I might love you still. You can be a rather difficult man to love though, Erik."

"Love me?" he responded incredulously.

She simply nodded. "Love you, Erik."

He took a deep, calming breath at that, trying to hard to shut out that part of his mind that screamed the she was lying, that screamed that no-one could ever love him, that his own mother couldn't even love him and it was hardly possible that this girl - that any woman could.

But there she was, her face so innocent and honest, so truthful. There was no deceit in her eyes, no malice visible at the very surface.

"May I stay here tonight?"

"The bedroom is yours, Christine," he answered far too quickly, his mind still reeling in an attempt to process what she had just said. "You are always welcome - to the bedroom and my home. It is just as much yours at this point as it is mine."

She nodded, suddenly seeming so small and shy.

Their dinner was a quiet one, each of them seeming to be so caught up in their own thoughts that they were incapable of sharing any with each other. Yet Erik enjoyed it just as much as he did any evening that he was graced with her presence. Something about her soothed him, calmed him - and it was an odd thing, as she was often the cause of his terrible temper, yet it was true. The few hours he spent in her company were the most relaxed he would ever be.

He hardly ever supped with her, instead sitting with her while she supped and waiting until he was alone to have his own small dinner. This was through no fault of her own, of course. She had asked him many times, even begged him, to remove his mask and eat with her. He had considered such a thing in the past, but he couldn't bring himself to. He couldn't bare to subject her to the terrible, disgusting sight that was the face of death eating dinner. She had promised him that it wouldn't bother her, but how could that be when he couldn't even bare the sight of himself in the mirror? So he would sit with her while she ate, and eat long after she had left him.

Tonight was no exception to that rule he had crafted for himself. The only compromise he made was to lift his mask - only just so much - and sip his tea. This was far more than he had ever dared to chance in the past. He had expected disgust, for her to stare at her bowl, to avoid the dreadful sight. Instead she smiled sweetly at him, seeming almost pleased with herself.

And when she laid down her spoon she smiled sweetly yet again. "I want to help you with the dishes," she announced.

He scoffed. "You are my guest - and as such, I will not allow you to labor in my home."

Her lips pressed together as she attempted a serious and thoughtful look, but it cracked with her smile. "Am I truly a guest if you ultimately mean to marry me?"

And Christine, the viper, the lovely girl, said it in such a sickly sweet tone that he couldn't find it in him to argue with her. "If you truly wish to," he said softly, "then I will not stop you. I couldn't deny you if I wanted to."

At that she grew somber, standing and gathering her own dishes and the serving ladle. She took quick steps into his small kitchen, hardly giving Erik a moment to process what had just happened.

After a long moment he stood, following her and lingering in the doorway of the kitchen, watching as she scrubbed at the dishes.

"I've upset you."

She paused in her scrubbing, wiping at her eyes with the back of her right wrist and sniffling. "No you haven't," she argued softly, returning to her dishes.

"I have," he retorted. "I am no quite so imperceptive, Christine. I've clearly upset you. I don't know how, but I'm sorry. This isn't how our dinners should go - they should be enjoyable. I look forward to them so, yet I always managed to find a way to ruin the evening. I am sorry for that."

"You haven't done anything, Erik," she reassured him. "I swear that you haven't done anything wrong - not tonight."

"Then why are you crying?"

She finally abandoned her dishes, rubbing at her eyes again before she turned to face him, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. "I don't know what to do."

"About what?" he coaxed, staying just where he was, watching the tears intermittently chase each other down her pale cheeks.

"I can't imagine a life without you," she breathed. "Since my father died, you've been here. You've always been here. For so long you were my only friend." She paused, sniffling, and he stood perfectly still, his eyes trained on her face. "Yet I can't - I can't imagine a life with you either," her confession was low and quiet. "I don't know if I'm strong enough - you need someone strong, Erik, and I don't know if I can be. And maybe, I don't know, maybe it's me who doesn't deserve you after all."

"That's not true," he said quickly. "That's not true and you know it Christine. You are far more than I could ever deserve. I do love you, in case you haven't managed to realize that."

She gave a breathy laugh, wiping at her eyes again.

"You are the only person in this world that has shown me a shred of compassion," he continued. "You are the only person I have invited into my home. You have been through death, and lies, you have worked hard and you are moving into the role of Prima Donna. You are plenty strong, wether you believe that or not. It isn't you that needs to change, Christine. It's me."

"No matter what I decide I will break someone's heart," she said, twisting the ring he had forced onto her so long ago nervously around her finger.

"You will," he said softly. There was no point in lying to her, not anymore. Not when he was so close to actually being human to her.

Her lower lip quivered, tears falling heavier and he ached - he ached so terribly to brush them away, to pull her into his arms, to tell her that everything would be fine - that she wouldn't have to make a decision.

And for the first time he actually stepped toward her, his hand rising to slowly to her face, so hesitantly, allowing her every opportunity to pull away. But she didn't, instead she remained perfectly still, holding her breath as though he were a wild animal that would be spooked away with even the slightest provocation. Perhaps he was.

When his thumb brushed across her cheek his own breath caught in his chest. He was so close to her, so incredibly close that all it would take was half a step and he could wrap his arms around her, could pull her to him. But he couldn't; instead he wiped away her tears, letting his arm fall back to his side limply.

"I hate to see you cry," he said softly.

And without a word she was closing the half step between them, wrapping her own arms around him and pressing her wet face against his chest, her breath warm through the thin fabric of his poet's shirt. After some hesitation he dared to hold her in return, one hand finding its way to her upper back and the other softly stroking her frizzled hair, his chin hesitantly resting atop her head.

It was so much, so incredibly much that he hardly understood what was happening. He was sure, had his head been in the right place, he would have pulled away from her. He had always felt partially responsible for her, to be sure she was taken care of, that she was safe and that their time together always remained appropriate.

In that moment he was sure that if her father were not dead he would have murdered Erik. There was nothing proper about how close she was, how warm she was. How much he didn't want to let her go.

Her crying had begun to fade, the only remnants were her infrequent sniffles but still she held onto him. He should step away, he thought, force her to let him go. But he couldn't bring himself to. It felt so right, so perfect, so much more than he had ever felt and, he was afraid, would ever feel again.

He wasn't naive; this was probably the most he could ever hope for. He was content with it, more than content, but he didn't hate himself quite enough to end it.

"I will be better," he whispered, just loud enough for her to hear him. "I will - I will try to control my temper. I will allow you to have the sun - I can't walk in it with you, but I can let you have it. My jealousy, though, my jealousy will never end Christine. I will not make you a promise that I cannot keep."

"And you'll be honest, from now on," she said, her breath warm and feathery on his chest.

"I will do my best to be as honest with you as I can," he said softly, his hand stroking her hair just one more time before she pulled away from him.

"I'm sorry," she said, wiping at her eyes and forcing a smile to her face. "I'm being ridiculous."

"You are never ridiculous, Christine," he said softly, trying to temper the urge to pull her back to him. "You should rest. You look exhausted, I will finish up with the dishes."

She nodded, sniffling again. She stood near to the door now, looking back at him with something in her eyes that he couldn't quite read. "Goodnight, Erik."

"Goodnight, my Christine," he returned, watching as she disappeared around the corner of the living room and into her bedroom.

It wasn't until he looked down that he realized the way his hands were shaking. He was suddenly far too aware of his own body, of his own breathing becoming more and more uneven by the moment. It was all too much.

He had only wanted supper with her - it was meant to be no different than any other Sunday evening. It was different though, and he could feel himself falling into a panic. That she could love him? That she could actually consider him for marriage?

It was when she left him that his demons struck, they always did, each voice louder and more cruel than the one that preceded.

"She's a liar."

"You're a monster."

"No-one could love you."

"She is probably in there scrubbing herself clean from your touch at this very moment."

It was far too difficult to fight irrational thoughts when he believed them himself. He was crying, something he hated doing. He had been strong enough to carry himself his whole life and now he cried, the tears making the space between the mask and his face terribly uncomfortable.

The dishes could wait; instead he made his way into his own bedroom, steadying himself with one hand on the stone walls of his home. He was suffocating, suffocating in his own mask, in his own skin, and for a moment he wondered if this was actually the end for him. He always wondered that when his attacks came, but this time he almost willed it.

It would not be so terrible to die now, in this moment, while he could convince himself that she had meant what she said, that perhaps she did love him. It would not be so terrible to die before she could kill him when her inevitable choice was made. Believing a lie would not be so terrible when it was such a pretty one.

But his shaking hands found the box tucked under the coffin that seemed even too macabre to him in the moment.

He sat upon the floor, sighing in relief when he flipped open the lid to the box and found a full vial inside of it. He could be neglectful of his own needs at times and for once he was glad that he had been prepared, screwing the little cap off before he screwed the tip of his needle on and filled the instrument from the vial.

There was something that made him hesitate this time, staring at the glimmering liquid inside of the clear needle. It was wrong. Something was so terribly wrong about it.

It was relief, it would sooth his frazzled nerves, it would quiet the voices that bounced about in his head, it would bring him sleep.

He let his head fall back against the coffin, making an attempt to steady his breathing. There was a terrible foreboding in the pit of his stomach, something that made him pause, almost incapable of piercing himself with the needle.

He had never felt this before, this terrible resistance.

What if something happens? His mind raced. What if something happens and she needs you? What if something happens to you and she finds you?

With a grunt he was packing his box back up, shoving it back into it's hiding place beneath his coffin, his fingers still trembling just the same. He couldn't, he couldn't bare the thought of her grief.

And she would grieve him. He wasn't disillusioned about that. Wether he believed she loved him or not he was more than aware that she felt something for him. She cared for him, and he couldn't allow her to find him in such a state. He had traumatized the poor girl more than enough without forcing her to face his own mortality.

He made his way into his little living room, his whole house such a mockery of modern society, and stoked up a fire. He had never felt quite so dissatisfied with the life he had built for himself before.

The brandy poured out easily, silky and warm. It would be enough to calm his nerves - not quite enough to shut out the voices that shouted at him, but enough to stop the dreadful tremor of his hands, enough to let him catch his own breath.

How miserable he was.

How could he ever expect her to willingly be his when he lived in such a state? He liked to imagine that it would be different, that he would be better with her. That even if he couldn't manage to find a state of happiness he would be content, he wouldn't be so damn miserable and lonely.

He could never be normal, though. He would never be able to take her on evening strolls, he would never be able to take her to the opera like a normal man. Everything he had, everything that he lived was such a mockery of normalcy. He had tried, though. He always dressed in the highest fashion, he carved his home out of stone, had done his best to match it to the layout of any normal home, he had furnished her bedroom with only the best that he could find.

And yet superficial tweaks could only disguise so much. At the end of the day he was no more than a monster and his home was no more than a cave. How he longed for the ability to give her the life that the boy would, to be a man that she could be proud to take as a husband. To be a man that she could walk down the streets with, one that she could introduce to her friends, one that could offer her a normal courtship.

There was no normalcy for him, though. No matter how much he tried there never would be. Maybe a semblance, he may be able to find the faintest hint of it if he tried particularly hard, but none worth mentioning.

When she emerged from her room in the morning it was to find Erik sitting in the same spot, his empty brandy glass still clutched in his hand as he stared at the smoldering fire.

"Erik?" her voice was heavy with sleep, but the concern was easily heard.

"Stay here today," he said, never lifting his eyes from the fire.

"You know that I can't, Erik. I always have rehearsal on Mondays."

"I will send a letter," he said softly. "I'll pass it along to Madam Giry. They wouldn't want you to sing ill regardless, you are going to make them a lot of money."

"What's going on?" she asked, pulling her dressing gown tighter as she made her way to him. Finally, she knelt in front of him, forcing him to look at her. "What is this about?"

He sighed, setting his empty glass on the coffee table and straightening his wig before he looked back down at her. "I know how this story ends, Christine. We both do, even if you won't admit it. Give me one day, just one more day believing that this could be something, that - that there is actually a hope for this, for me. For us."

"Erik, I -"

"I don't want you to lie to me," he cut her off. "I don't need you to lie to me."

She was silent, her bottom lip caught between her teeth again. She always bit her lip when she was thinking, it was one of the many quirks that Erik so loved about her.

Her hands were snaking up, up toward his mask. He should stop her, he knew that he should, but he found himself frozen in place as they came to frame his jaw.

"Christine," he forced out, fighting against his own anxiety.

"Shush," she said soothingly, so calmly. Her hands were steady as her finger tips slid under the edges of the mask and then, so slowly, she was pulling it away.

His eyes were forced shut - he couldn't bare to look, couldn't bare the look of disgust that was surely on her face now.

She made no sound though, her right hand finding his cheek, her fingertips tracing the mangled flesh that masqueraded as his face.

"Look at me," she coaxed.

He obeyed, slowly opening his eyes to find her smiling gently at him.

"I don't know what is in your mind," she whispered, "but I am sure it is far worse than your face truly is. You are special, Erik, wether you know it or not. You are a genius, artistically and intellectually. This," she said, cupping his cheek, "is just a face - it's just skin, Erik, and I don't care about it. I really don't."

"I have no nose," he argued.

The silly girl laughed at that. "You are very observant," she said cheekily.

He sighed, letting his eyes slip closed as he leaned his cheek into the soothing, soft warmth of her hand. "What could I ever offer you?"

"Love," she said easily. "Truly unconditional love. Magic, intrigue. Something tells me that life by your side would never grow boring. And I know, I truly know, that you would take care of me. So maybe you couldn't be like the other girls' husbands, maybe you couldn't take me out on town in the middle of the day and throw balls in our home. Maybe I don't want that life. I don't know what's going to happen, Erik, but don't sit here and tell me that you know the ending to our story before it's ever written. I've forgiven you. When will you learn to forgive yourself?"

"Don't kiss him, Christine," it was more than he had the right to request, but he couldn't keep the thought in, not now. "You haven't made a decision and - and I suppose you have two courtships. But don't kiss him, please. Not until, not until you've made up your mind."

She nodded, her thumb gently tracing his high cheekbone. "I won't kiss him," she said softly. "If that is what you ask, then I will oblige."

He let out a breath of relief, suddenly feeling himself relax, his tightened chest loosening for the first time since the night before. He was exhausted, the sleepless night weighing on him far more heavily than it usually did.

"I will come back," she promised him. "After rehearsal, I will come back. I promise."

"You promise?"

"I promise," she repeated softly. "Get some rest, Erik."

The last thing he felt before he drifted into the most restful sleep he had in months was her warm, soft lips pressing gently to his forehead.


End file.
